𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔈𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔚𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔷

𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓾𝓮

   One lie always follows another, and so "justice" awaits inescapably at the end. The ignorant see this as some kind of farce. But if they trace back to the source, they inevitably realize that they began by deceiving themselves.

—A disordered fable left in someone's dream by Mage "N"

She stared as the world shattered into a million pieces before her eyes, each fragment a warped reflection of a life she never truly lived. Laughter echoed, hollow and mocking, from phantoms of those she'd loved and lost. Their faces, once vibrant with genuine smiles, were now smeared with a grotesque parody of joy – a cruel reminder of the happiness that had slipped through her grasp like grains of sand poured through a clenched fist. A single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek, a stark contrast to the barren wasteland within. It wasn't sadness, not anymore. Sadness, at least, held a flicker of hope, a yearning for what was lost. This was a profound, soul-crushing emptiness that had gnawed at her for so long that it felt like the only companion she had left.

The air tasted of ash and regret. Each ragged breath felt like a betrayal, a desperate cling to an existence that had long since been extinguished.  The vibrant world she'd once known, the world where laughter was genuine and love a tangible warmth, had dissolved into a desolate dreamscape. It was a mausoleum of her own making, built with the bricks of lies and deceptions. Each memory, once a cherished treasure, now felt like a shard of broken glass, cutting deep with the sting of self-inflicted wounds.

Her reflection, fractured and distorted in the shattered world, mirrored the truth – there was nothing left to salvage. No redemption, no solace, just the chilling certainty that the "justice" Mage N spoke of was a cruel joke. It wasn't a grand reckoning; it wasn't a bolt of lightning from a vengeful sky. It was the slow, agonizing decay of a soul consumed by its own self-deception. A chilling wind whispered through the shattered fragments, carrying a melody more akin to a funeral dirge than a lullaby. It spoke of a darkness so profound, not even the faintest glimmer of hope could penetrate.

She closed her eyes, a single, chilling thought echoing in the desolate wasteland of her mind: this wasn't a dream. It was the horrifying reality she'd created, brick by agonizing brick. And there was no waking up. No escape from the suffocating prison she'd built around herself. Just the relentless echo of her own deceit, a constant reminder of the life she'd sacrificed at the altar of lies. A life that could have been filled with warmth, with love, with the possibility of joy. But all that remained were the shattered fragments, mocking reflections of a path not taken, a life unlived.  This was her purgatory, a self-inflicted hell where the only tormentor was the ghost of who she could have been.

A chilling wind whispered through the shattered fragments, carrying a faint melody that sent shivers down her spine. It wasn't a song, but a lullaby of despair, a dirge for a life lost. It spoke of a darkness so profound, not even the faintest glimmer of hope could penetrate. The melody wormed its way into the cracks of her fractured mind, amplifying the chilling truth – this wasn't a dream. It was the horrifying reality she'd created, brick by soul-crushing brick. There was no waking up, no escape from the desolate wasteland she'd built with her own choices. The weight of it all, the crushing despair, threatened to consume her entirely. Yet, a flicker, a faint ember of defiance, sparked within the ashes of her being. A single question, raw and desperate, echoed in the desolate wasteland: was there anything left to salvage, even a sliver of redemption, in this desolate existence she'd constructed?

She closed her eyes, a single, chilling thought echoing in the desolate wasteland of her mind: this wasn't a dream. It was the horrifying reality she'd created, brick by agonizing brick, lie by insidious lie. And there was no waking up. There was only the suffocating knowledge that this desolate, shattered existence was her only legacy, a monument to the self-destruction she'd so meticulously architected.